


Amanita Muscaria (or, Exit Music for a Film)

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-20
Updated: 2009-02-20
Packaged: 2019-01-19 20:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12417942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: "The Ted Tonks that sits in the corner of this dingy cafe with Andromeda is a Ted he does not recognise, and one that he does not like. He's too lost, too confused." Ted finds himself waiting for Andromeda in a muggy cafÃ© a month after their last day of school.





	Amanita Muscaria (or, Exit Music for a Film)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

He trespasses the entrance to the café, only to strengthen the thought that this is everything but a good idea. It isn't safe for Muggle-borns these days. Cursing himself for being so weak to actually meet up with her, he strolls around the murky place, trying to find her familiar face, but finding nothing.

Ted Tonks heads to one of the smaller tables in the deep corner, not too visible, and, noticing the barman, gives him a quick nod which is not returned. Maybe he shouldn't have done that? Oh well, what's done is done...

The cafe is not, by any means, full, but it isn't entirely empty, either, muses Ted as he glances around. There is a common characteristic of most tables that have a somewhat large sum of people: most of them have their heads together, and often hush each other quickly and look around, wearing nothing but anxious glances. As he strolls to the table he has already mentally claimed as his own, some of the wizards huddled together look up, but none seem to know who he is—something for which he is deeply thankful—and go back to minding their own business.

Dragging back a chair to sit, he comes to the conclusion that it is best if he leaves his robes on. He swears he won't stay much longer if she does not deign to make an appearance. Hell, he is risking far too much by just being in the open, considering his bloodline, or lack thereof; the fact that it is she that he is here to meet only contributes to his feeling of vulnerability.

Ted glances at his watch. Fifteen past eleven. If she is not here by half past eleven, he's leaving, and she will have to manage on her own—for real this time; will have to find another way to keep on going, one that does not involve him. He is quite tired of it by now.

_Why are you here now, then?_

But then he remembers the letter that arrived yesterday at his bedroom window, late in the afternoon. The hurriedly scribbled words asking him to meet her here. He wondered if her hand had been trembling as she wrote it...maybe.

The entrance of the place opens to let some light illuminate its murky walls, and with the light, a warm breeze enters, headed right to where he sits, as if to bother him for having decided to stay fully clothed on such a warm morning. With an effortless glance backwards, he recognises her figure instantly, but makes no attempt to grab her attention. From the corner, he watches as she looks around for his face, which takes her quite a while to find. When she does, her lips purse, but she walks towards him.

Neither of them says anything as she drags the spare chair backwards and sits on it. The silence is not awkward; neither is it invasive, but it's heavy. Rather stubbornly—old habits die hard—he resolves to keep deadly silence and let her be the first to break it. Sitting back in his chair, he can't help but feel satisfied with the way he's responding to all this, especially after their last month. Serves her right for choosing it to be this way. He had given her the option. She had been the one to reject it.

Her awkwardness is very evident. "Hello." The words come out of her mouth with difficulty, dance to the rhytmn of an unknown song, and he keeps his silence. Inwardly, he is smiling—a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.That has to count for something, right?

"Hello," she says again, in a low voice. "Thank you, Ted, for coming here on such short notice, I know—"

Andromeda Black was not one to ramble. Every time she did, which was not at all often, it was due to an unnerving situation, and it comes as some sort of surprise that she is under the spell of discomfort in his presence. Because of him. Ted's instincts are far too strong to put on hold, so he speaks.

"It's not safe for me to be here." It is neither a question nor an accusation, just a clear statement, and they both know its truth. His words, he sees now, however, were too sharp, even if he had not meant them to be—she shifts in her seat. He knows she's wondering if she's done the right thing by succumbing to send the letter.

It is then that he looks at her, sees the hurt flashing through her eyes, and all of the protective walls he had been building up over the month come tumbling down with a loud _CRASH_. Whatever had happened at King's Cross, he is here only because she had reached out to him. The state he finds himself in, this too-thin line he has been ambling across these days, is one he does not like at _all—_ for ever wanting to see her hurt and for still caring about her at all _._ For eighteen years, he was been strong, confident, and certain Ted Tonks, son of a financial worker and lawyer, from Surrey, Great Britain. Ted, who knew at the mere age of six that his future lay nowhere but in Medicine; a thought he still conserved after turning eleven and discovering a world so intricate that, seven years later, he still has trouble grasping it. He had always known what he wanted in life, and how he was going to get it.

The Ted Tonks that sits in the corner of this dingy cafe with Andromeda is a Ted he does not recognise, and one that he does not like. He's too lost, too confused.

He wishes he could go back—knowing that wishing is just stupid, because things are so unconceivably different right now, because times have changed for the bad. Everything he once desired—school, Healing, success—now means nothing to him.

Except Andromeda. Of course.

Sigh.

"I know," she whispers. "I know." She looks defeated, he thinks. "I'm sorry I called you here. It was stupid, not to mention risky."

She does not apologise for the fact that they have met, nor does she make any attempt to stand up and leave. Risky, yes, but they are still here.

Neither of them moves. He doesn't know what to _do_. _God_.

With Andromeda, everything had seemed to easy—there had never been any doubt or hesitation before saying or doing something; he had just been...himself. She had never done anything but bring out the best of him, the true core of what he was, what he had grown up to be. He had never kept anything to himself, had always shared it with her with all willingness.

"Did you hear about the protest in the Ministry?" she asks, and he nods.

 "Yeah." The picture in the _Daily Prophet_ comes to his mind, a moving picture of at least a dozen wizards hidden underneath thick, dark, heavy robes. A not-so-peaceful protest had taken place right in the centre ofthe Atrium, led by—surprise, surprise—some of You-Know-Who's masked followers, demanding Albus Dumbledore's dismissal from the position of Hogwarts Headmaster. The _Daily Prophet_ insinuated that those responsible for such an act did what they did under the belief that, as Dumbledore would evidently not resign his post voluntarily, he would if the Ministry found too much opposition or pressure.

Her twiddling fingers gave her away. "I think—I'm not entirely sure—but I think my father had something to do with it."

The mental picture of the news was replaced by one of an middle-aged man, one Ted had never gotten to know personally, yet. If Andromeda was suspicious about it, then there was absolutely no doubt that it had been this way. There was not much that he knew about her family, with the exception of the Blacks mentioned in the wizarding news and some of the information she had shared with him in the dark corners of the Astronomy Tower, but he knew, as well as everyone in the magical world did, that the Blacks would not hesitate before meddling with things of this sort.

"He got home late in the evening that night, and he was so _furious_ , he was so hysterical, so out of his mind. Bellatrix wasn't home, of course, she hasn't been ever since I've returned from Hogwarts, but Cissa was there, and she didn't do or say anything. Neither did my mother. I bet the two of them knew exactly what was going on, but how could they? How could Narcissa know, and not me?" Andromeda looked up at him, as if questioning him, accusing him for not knowing the answer. "They have started to reject me, keep me out of things. It's all so _strange_..."

She is interrupted by a waitress, who decides this is the best time to ask for their orders. Ted leans back in his seat at the interruption; he hadn't realised he had been leaning forward, hanging on every word Andromeda was saying. Andromeda looks up at the dark-haired woman, puzzled for a bit, but orders a butterbeer. The waitress then turns to Ted, who shakes his head, and she struts away.

"Why did you want me to come here, Andromeda?"

It felt strange to use her full name; he was not used to it. He was not familiar with Andromeda—it was 'Meda that he was so fond of.

Her fingers, wich had been twiddling all along, even during the brief interruption, freeze. She looks up at him at the same moment that the waitress comes back with a bottle of cold butterbeer, places it on the table, and leaves. Andromeda stares right at him, and he doesn't like it; he feels too vulnerable already. Her eyes don't quite look the same as they did in Hogwarts.

"I'm s _o_ rry," she drawls, and her voice shakes the slightest bit with the last syllable. She is blinking too much, he realises, as if pushing back the tears that threaten to come out. This is far too much. A battle sets off inside of him, because, _God_ , her hand is only inches apart from his, and all he wants to do is grip it, to be strong for her, but his dignity, his _dignity_ , _where will it go_?

"I'm so, so very sorry," she goes on. Her eyes glisten a bit, and his hand still lies on the table. "I didn't know what to do then, and now it's too late, isn't it? And I was afraid, Ted, I was terrified. I have _ne_ ver been as completely al _o_ ne as I have been this past month—" he was disgusted to feel the slightest bit satisfied, for he, too, had been absolutely miserable "—without you—" bloody disgusted "—and I hate it. I wish—I wish I had a Time-Turner.

"My father's never home, my mother's a lunatic, Bella—oh, Bella's just _Bella_ , and Cissa, she loathes me, _me_ , her own _sister_ ; I can _see_ it. How can a family like that ever work? How could I ever _believe_ it would work?"

There. Her hand is under his. Good job. (Good job? Really? He still hesitates, if only a little bit.)

"'Meda," he says, in a soothing voice, glad to be using her _real_ name, "why are you here? Why are we here?"

He thinks of those times at Hogwarts, where it had really, _truly_ seemed much easier than outside the castle, in real life, and he breaks a little; how can the strong one be the one needing comfort now? For the first time in his life, he feels adult enough to deal with responsibilites he wouldn't have accepted in other circumstances. He feels old. And he is eighteen _. Old_.

The world isn't working properly; it hasn't been for a few months. He misses it, the normalcy. He misses it.

He forgives her. It is right then that he realises that he forgives her for standing him up at King's Cross, for ever thinking that her family was ever going to be the way she wanted it to be, for having left him. He forgives her, even when, truly, she never did something for which she needed to be forgiven. He concludes that it's all right now, that the past month was an awful one—and an awfully long one—but that it's okay, left in the past, and he isn't blaming anyone anymore. She is here now. They are back again. _She is here now._

It was she he had missed, more than normalcy, more than anything, really.

"I want you to ask me again," she says, firm once again, alive with passion and determination and, God, so much strength. "Ask me again. Ask me to take a train with you, to leave everything for you, to get away from this. I want to get away from this, Ted; I want you, you. It's you I want. I see that now."

With his thumb, he strokes her hand, kisses it as his response, and she smiles, such a smile he feels pain. When did they grow up? It is his turn to feel strong, adult, but strong enough with so much _passion_ and r _evulsion_ towards these beings that could bring so much anguish to the world, to _her_ , so easily...just a quickly flick of their wands, and that's it. How is it that evil is always faster to reproduce, and so much more effortless than good? Why is it that one act of goodness is hard, whilst evil...whilst evil... spreads exponentially...like...fungi?

This day, they'll escape, far, far away. Away, before hell breaks loose...and he doesn't say anything, just soft words and small kisses, but one look at her, wretched and miserable like this, and he hopes—he hopes they choke, all of them, _all of them_.


End file.
